


Five Ways Sherlock and John Didn't Meet

by StarMaple



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Gen, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:12:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarMaple/pseuds/StarMaple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five short AU takes on the meeting of Holmes and Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Ways Sherlock and John Didn't Meet

The officers of Scotland Yard were a bunch of imbeciles, thought Sherlock Holmes, stomping through the doors of the study in the family home. There seemed to be nothing at all Sherlock could do to get through to them. The answers were all there, if only they’d open their eyes!

Mycroft looked up at Sherlock’s entrance into his domain. He was seated behind his desk and offered Sherlock a long suffering raised eyebrow and a sigh. “What is it this time, Sherlock?” he asked.

“The officers won’t take me seriously, Mycroft. I could show them if they’d just give me a chance, but…” Sherlock nearly choked on pride. “They say I need an escort before they’ll even deal with me. Will you help me, Mycroft?”

Mycroft’s mouth thinned into a disapproving line as he folded his hands in front of him. “Sherlock, I think this has all gone on long enough, don’t you?” He pushed up from his chair to take a turn about the room. “You’re not a child anymore, and I think it's time to end these childish games. It’s time to stop playing at detective, and time to settle down. Mother and I have picked out a number of eligible candidates for you to—“

“I’m not getting married!” Sherlock stomped a foot.

Mycroft sighed again. “It is entirely possible one of them will play chaperone—“

Sherlock interrupted again. “Impossible, Mycroft. I cannot be a detective when they will no doubt want me to run a home or…” Sherlock shudders with distaste, “…have children.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Like it or not, Sherlock Holmes, you are a young woman of means, and running a home and having children are your fate and duty.”

Sherlock glared. “I’d never do anything so… mundane,” she said, skirts swishing with her indignity. “If you won’t help me, I’ll just help myself.” With that, she stomped back out of the house and hailed a hansom cab.

***

Michael Stamford seemed an ordinary man, but Sherlock had quickly deduced, upon seeing him, that the man had four daughters whom he doted upon and spoiled and that he believed in women’s suffrage, because of those daughters. Sherlock had used it to her advantage, as she tended to do if she could, and had wheedled her way into his heart with her tale of woe.

He did what he could for her, privately of course. He couldn’t publicly be her escort to the crime scenes she so longed to go to, but he could let her in the back door of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital after dark and let her use the scientific equipment there to her heart’s content until he came to open the lab back up in the morning.

This time, as they crossed paths at the back entrance, she paused and turned to him with her sweetest (and mostly made up) smile and asked, “There’s another little favor I have to ask, if you might know anyone…”

***

When John Watson woke up this morning, and set out into the city, cane in hand, to hopefully find some means of employment, he certainly hadn’t expected to run into his old friend Mike Stamford. After that, he certainly hadn’t expected Mike Stamford to open the back door of St. Bart’s to reveal a young woman, dark-haired and grey-eyed, sizing him up instantly like he was transparent and then looking back to Stamford with a smile.

“Sherlock Holmes, this is Doctor John Watson,” Stamford introduced.

John takes off his hat and bows a little, greeting her with politeness despite his confusion. “Miss Hol—“

“Afghanistan, I presume,” she said sharply, cutting him off.

Watson sputtered. “How could you possibly know—“

Sherlock cut him off again, waving a hand as if the whole thing was irrelevant. “Military,” she said thoughtfully, “and a medical man, judging by your familiarity with the hospital. Not likely to be turned green by a few corpses, then.” She smirked and it was unlike anything he’d ever seen before on a lady, and he’d met many in his day. He had to admit it looked rather fetching on her, but he had no time to appreciate it as her words elicited alarm in him.

“Now wait just a minute,” Watson demanded. “Corpses!? What exactly are you going on about?”

“I find myself in need of a chaperone, Doctor,” Sherlock explained. “I am a detective. I solve cases via letter and telegram mainly, as no one apparently trusts an investigator in skirts.” Her hands ruffled at the item in question, fabric shushing at the motion. “Trivialities involving inheritance and adultery bore me, however, and I long to solve cases of import: Murder and great thefts.” Her eyes lit up at the very idea. “The police will not let an unescorted woman through to see a body however…”

“So a chaperone?” he finished.

“Exactly so.” She nods. “You find yourself in need of employment, and I have some for you. I’ve found some rooms on Baker Street,” she explained. “You shall live there as my ‘long lost cousin’ and escort me where I need to go, and in return I shall cover your food and lodging.”

“I…” Watson started. This was all rather sudden.

“Oh. Sometimes I play violin very late at night and go days without speaking. This won’t be a problem will it?” She was moving past him, on her way to the door.

“This is all a little irregular,” Watson called out, flustered. “How do you know I’m trustworthy? Or that I’ll even say yes?”

She smirked again, looking him up and down. “I can see it. I’ll expect you later this morning, then, at Baker Street. 221B Baker Street.”


End file.
